


lazarus of leaves and shadow

by spoofyadverts



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, During Canon, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Trust Issues, after ghost gets the pure nail, and eventually broken vessel will, greenpath bab gets the dads they deserve, ik they arent covered in plants but For The Aesthetic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoofyadverts/pseuds/spoofyadverts
Summary: Sheo finds a body deep within Greenpath.He's determined to let the little one be at peace, but things take an odd turn.





	1. a discovery

Sheo had seen many corpses.  
Exoskeletons litter this harsh land, lie scattered across thorn-filled pits, sleep beneath the surface of hissing, toxic pools, stare unblinking and empty-eyed at moss-lined cavern ceilings. Maskflies perch on long-abandoned shells, build their nests in caved open craniums, rear their young in torn open thoraxes sheltered by curled up limbs.  
Even if bodies were a common sight for him, the small size of this one took him aback.  
Although they do not live, Greenpath’s life floods them, intertwines with unmoving shell and dropped nail. Vines wind around their horns, thorns caressing the cracks in their face as if they comforted the little one in their last moments. Leaves lounging in empty sockets, small flowers beginning to bloom from an opened head- lifeless, yet a host for new growth. 

Somehow, the sight is both beautiful beyond belief and nauseating beyond description.  
When he’d noticed them, he froze for a moment, horrified, mournful. After he clears the leaves from the empty face, blank eyes meeting his, his shoulders un-tense. It isn’t them.  
Obscured under foliage, he’d mistaken the silent form for his brother’s pupil. When he looked into the nothingness in the small bug’s eye sockets, he almost saw the determined expression of the child who, in between slashing their way through places that would terrify the strongest warriors, unfazed, would visit him to show him a particularly interesting trinket they found, would attempt to join him in painting with a clumsy, yet effortful vigour, would visit partly just so they could bounce off the backs of the creatures in the acid pools in their path. There was certainly an easier way to reach the former Nailmaster’s house. When he pointed it out, they just shrugged. They liked the challenge. A reckless, confident little creature. Could this have been how that confidence ended?  
He’d rather not muse on that thought.  
The small bug was dead, he was certain. The deep crack running across their face was enough evidence of that. But they deserved better than this. To be left alone and unremembered, only the leaves and bushes to watch over them? Sheo would wish that on nobody. He could make their body presentable at least, couldn’t he? Perhaps he’d bring them to the moth in The Resting Grounds afterwards.  
Scooping up the small, limp form as he would a newly hatched grub, ensuring he brought the moss-covered nail lying beside them, the artist leaves. He has work to do.  
He does not notice the shadow that follows.

The Nailsmith gives a concerned glance to the body in his lover’s arms, as Sheo enters, setting them down on a workbench. He approaches the other and embraces him, nuzzling cheek to cheek. The uneasy feeling deep within Sheo vanishes- as if absorbed by the other’s beard.  
“It’s good to see you unhurt, my dear.”  
Sheo smiles, then glances at the body on the bench. “I found this little one stuck under foliage. I’ll bring them to a better resting place than here, but I think they’d be at peace more easily with an intact shell.”  
The crack is easy enough to fix. He seals the wound, although it will take some time to dry. The hole, on the other hand...  
He glances at the body, then to his materials. There’s a pale, almost white wood among them. It matches the stark white of the shattered shell but is far rougher, far stronger. Their shell seems almost artificial, fragile as the glass of the long-abandoned buildings of the City of Tears, smooth and even like one of his sculptures. He wonders what sort of bug they were in life. Were they even a bug? If they were, they were a rare kind. Perhaps the same as the one he thought they were at first?  
Whether nature or hands made this shell, they made it with care, with detail. He had to match that with his own.  
Carefully, cautiously, slowly, he begins to mirror the shape of their face, scraping away at the wood with as much caution as he can manage. This has to be perfect.  
The shadow watches, unseen.

After some time, he holds a wooden replica of the damaged areas. He’ll need to smooth it down, but it’d be best to do that once the prosthetic’s in place. Holding it gently, he slips it into the hole.  
As soon as it fits into place, darkness fills the room, envelopes every corner. Shadows gather around the lost one, begin to seep into their eyes, gather under their cloak. Sheo draws his paintbrush as is if it were the strongest nail conceivable.  
When light returns, they are sat up, trembling, nail clutched to their chest.


	2. a memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vessel awakens, and remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : ) this hurt to write.  
> uhhh tw for Big Oof

The Vessel glances around the small room frantically.

Where were they they need to get away from Sister it hurts it hurts they need oUT-

This place is new. They glance at trembling hands, wondering how they still move. Why are they here? They want to go home. They want the safety of the void, the comfort of their siblings, the gentle, soothing caress of the nothingness in which they formed.

_Before they were there they were in the green place and everything was too loud and they hated it. The light here overwhelmed them, orange gases seeped into their void and festered and burned. It hurt. Everything hurt. They hated it. All they wished for, all they begged this unfeeling mass of viridian, was to go home again, to be among their Siblings and feel safe again, nestled among the shadows they were born in._

_Feeling was what made Father cast them away, wasn’t it? They desired to be hollow. Perhaps he’d let them be safe then. They’d learn to be hollow, then they could go home, and Father would accept them, welcome them._

_Someone is coming. The small one runs, tiny legs struggling to compete with an overweighing fear dragging them down. Their pursuer's disease has eroded any traces of mercy. It has eroded all but the primal urge to slay the Vessel. The Old Light burns away all but obedience._

_They dart forward. It isn’t enough. The infected knight strikes, and the Vessel recoils, pain coursing through their small body. They land limp, like a child’s abandoned toy, played with and tossed until it falls apart. Until it is useless, unrecognisable. Until it needs to be disposed of._

_It._

_Father had always called them “It.”_

_“It appears to be promising.”_

_“It has failed.”_

_“It is worthless.”_

_They’re thrown back far enough to dash out of sight, vision blurred and obscured by darkness, and they try to crawl under the bushes, place a stubby arm to their face in a futile attempt to pause a steady stream of pitch trickling from a new crack. Without treatment, it would slowly, slowly, painstakingly leak out, until there was nothing left of The Vessel besides an empty shell. How would they go home then? They wanted to see their Siblings again._

_The wound stings harder than anything, more than the pain of their rejection, the sensation of shell clattering against rock and broken bodies as they fell back into an endless crepuscule. It was a realisation they would not survive here. There is only the Vessel and the vegetation and the acid and the ones with dull eyes, who had lost their minds many, many moments ago. They had no allies. No Siblings were here. They were alone. They could not survive here alone._

_Someone is coming. She cuts their way through the undergrowth, glances around cautiously._

_The Vessel does not recognise her. But they sense Father within her. She is a Sibling, and they trust their siblings. They are safe._

_Sister was here, they aren’t alone anymore! The Vessel straps their nail to their back, approaches arms open and empty. They have no voice, no expression, but the leaking wound and the shaking of their entire form should tell Sister all they want to tell her. They needed help, and they knew Sister would help. They trusted her._

_Sister was safety._

_Sister would not harm them._

_Sister would help them._

_Sister would protect them._

_Sister simply scoffs and the needle comes close and then there is nothing but the far too close sound of shattering shell. The Vessel sees stars, sees mandalas, as they stumble back, slump into the shrubbery finding they no longer have the will to rise again. As their shell collapses, liquid shadows blooming from the opening carved into their fragile form, they only wonder why._

_Someone is coming. Before everything darkens to nothing, they hear another’s footsteps on grass, hears Sister call them weak like the one laid behind her was._

_The flowers on the bushes look delightful from underneath, they muse. Even when blurred and covered by inky fluid, they seem to glisten._

_The Vessel is calm._

 


	3. an identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheo finds a way to calm the Vessel. The vessel lets him think it worked.

 

Sister could still be nearby. They needed to leave.

The Vessel makes an attempt to dart away, towards the edge of the workbench and away from these strangers- _they’ll hurt them if they stay, they’re certain-_ It ends up as a shaky stagger ending in a stranger’s arms. Sheo doesn’t catch them roughly, but they flinch anyway- _how do they know they can trust either of them? they trusted Sister, and look where that’s taken them.-_

Maybe if they play along the bigger bugs won’t hurt them, let them think they’re succeeding at luring them into a false sense of security. But they aren’t! They won’t let them _fool_ them.

Play along. Be docile. Be Hollow.

If they become hollow, they can go Home. Everything will be okay. Father will accept them.

But where was Father? Where was Home?  Even if that time of nothingness seemed like an eternity, it can’t have been that long, right?  Father will still be there, in that shining palace they reached for a brief glimmer of as they fell. If- no, _when,_ they become Hollow, Father will accept them. Father will love them.

And they will not love back, lest they face the fall once more.

_(the fall. the fall. The fall the fall the fall the fall they think of it and their thoughts fall with it, with a memory of loss and unneeded love and failure failure failure they were a failure they are a failure they will be a failure and they will fall again they will fall)_

Attempts to quell the tremble of their limbs only fail, frustration rising with the panic. No, no, no they can’t be like this- Hollow beings should not tremble-

Sheo hears none of this. He does not know of the endless pit of skulls that flows through the child’s mind, each empty head whispering _you will be among us again, sibling. come home. come home. father wants you to be home. home is not with father, it is in the darkness. with us._

_COME HOME._

He only notices the way strangely fluid arms quiver, and hopes the child will heal with time

“It hasn’t sealed yet, little one… You should try to stay still for now, alright?” His voice is soft, comforting, warm. Not that it calms the Vessel. They can do little but submit to being set back down again, wondering why the room seems to tilt and shift and blur. They’re upright, but swaying slightly, trying to calm themselves.

An artist’s eyes are attuned to body language. Ever since Sheo had set down his nail and raised his brush, he’d learned to infuse a spectrum of emotions into his works. He knew what fear looked like, no matter how deeply it was covered. The shaking condensed into an occasional twitch, the slight rock back and forth, the way they turned their face to avoid meeting his... It was a quiet, submissive fear, one of someone who knew nothing but danger, someone who’d never seen safety before, and approached it like a mosscreep investigating an outsider to its habitat, unsure if friend or predator.

“You’re safe here, I promise.” He knows it won’t be much comfort, but he’s trying.

The Vessel’s only response is to numbly gaze at the door, trying their best to focus on the idea of safety- _how could they really believe that? everything wanted to hurt them here, what made him any different?-_ the thought of Father, of Home.

Well, that didn’t work… The artist thinks for a few moments. How can he calm them? Small talk? Distractions would work!

“Could you tell me your name, little grub?”

Their only response is an anxious shake of their head. Nailsmith looks away from his sketches and notices the way the Vessel glances around frantically- in search of something, anything to use as a weapon when the inevitable happened. Where was their nail- _why is he talking to them it must be an attempt to stall them they can’t listen they can’t they need to get out_ -

Clearly communicating with words won’t work. But there are alternatives, right? This is the home of two artists, after all.

It only takes a few moments of rummaging through Sheo’s spare supplies for Nailsmith to find something suitable. He offers it to the Vessel, alongside the pen needed for it.

All the vessel can do is hold it, perplexed, their head tilted slightly- _what… was it? a weapon? were the strangers wanting to give them a fighting chance for their own sick enjoyment? it didn’t look like a very efficient nail- far too flimsy and blunt, clearly meant to put them at a disadvantage in combat-_ when their gaze wanders to the strangers, they notice they seem as confused as they are.

Sheo isn’t sure how to respond.

“It’s for writing. Are you...able to write?”

_oh! writing! they knew what that was, at least… but what did writing have to do with this...strangely flat nail?-_ They nod tensely- _play along. if they can play along they can leave-_

“Would you like me to show you how to use it?” He carefully takes the board from the smaller bug, their hands leaving patches of black fluid. But how to demonstrate?

….

...His drawing was neater than his writing, he thought.

A small sketch will do. Stem, leaves, pistil. One of the many flowers surrounding their home (Unn’s dream was indeed a beautiful one, if dangerous). As he looks up from his work, at their guest, he freezes for a moment. Odd- They’re mesmerised. That means it’s working to calm them down, at least. He continues. Petals, veins, thorns. The vessel’s head moves to follow the pen. It reminds Sheo of how, when he was younger, he’d amuse himself by slowly moving is nail in circles around a tiktik’s head, watching as it followed its movement, enthralled. Sly was quick to demand he stop fooling around and get back to training, but that certainly wasn’t the last time he tried it.

They were more curious than anything else- _where was the white line coming from? it looked like Father’s bright glow… any sign he could be nearby was a good one! but what does it mean…_

“You write on it. Or draw, like I drew that flower…”

Flower- _that was a pretty word! they liked it. not that they knew what it meant… they liked it anyway! pretty word…_

They make a nod of acknowledgement, less anxious this time. Almost enthusiastic.

Sheo chuckles warmly-Looks like he’s found a way to comfort them. “Ah, you’re feeling a little better. That’s good!”

Another nod.

Sheo’s about to speak again, then pauses. Calling them “little one” could be seen as patronising to some-his thoughts wander to his old master, whose small stature lead to many misunderstandings and arguments. The memory would bring a smile to his face, but he realises that the smaller bug has no time for levity. Much like The Great Nailsage did...

“Now, I know you told me you didn’t have a name-” - _did they? all they remembered of the time since they awoke was of panicking then staring at the pretty white lines. although that was right-names were for real bugs, not Hollow ones like them. well, how they were supposed to be… they’d been feeling far too many emotions than they’d like to lately.  fear, panic, anxiety, the existential confusion that comes with rising from the dead._ _come to think of it, were they even a bug? they didn’t know- wait, the stranger was talking, wasn’t he? they should probably listen-_

Whatever he’d been saying had been drowned out by their internal monologue. All they can do is tilt their head slightly, silently asking him to repeat. Not that Sheo minds doing so…

He begins again. “Now, I know you told me you didn’t have a name, but is there anything you’d like to be called? _”-they don’t want a name. they want to find Father-_

They try their best to express this, by tapping the white lines, leaving blots of void residue.

“Flower?”- _no, no they don’t have a name they can’t have a name they need to be Hollow no-_ They’re about to protest the very concept of identity, then they remember their plan. Play along until they can escape. They nod.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you then, Flower-” He freezes, realising something. “Ah, we haven’t introduced ourselves yet, have we?” Flower notices how his expression is almost a polar opposite to Father’s cold glare, white light fading as they fell. Here there only was campfire warmth in the stranger’s eyes _-no, they cannot fall for it they cannot he will hurt them everyone will eventually. when they become Hollow, Father will love them and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?-_

Sheo notices the way his guest seems to become tense once more, but makes no mention of it. He simply tries his best to appear less threatening, crouching slightly. With Flower on a raised bench, it leaves them on an equal eye level.

“My name is Sheo. I once held the title of Nailmaster, but now I seek a less hostile path.”

He gestures to his partner. Even if his face is mostly obscured by beard, what the vessel can see of it seems safe- _seems-_

“You may call me Nailsmith.” When his work became his obsession, any memory he had of his original name faded. “I won’t press to know what brought you to the state Sheo found you in, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

Flower isn’t terrified. Afraid, certainly, but not terrified.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeehaw, I'm not dead! This turned out a lot longer than planned...


End file.
